So much for licking margarita salt and swimming in infinite pools all week. This fucking sucks. Cabo is cancelled because now daddy has turned into just as much of a lush as mommy–he can’t drink in Mexico, doctor’s orders, because he’s on antibiotics. And so, the whole trip has gone out the fucking window. Instead of frolicking in the pool and flirting with bitches at the swim-up bar, now I’m stuck here in the crappy-ass rain all week with mommy and Leona and mommy’s stupid strong-willed children books. (By the way, they aren’t about strong kids who are willing to say shit, damn and fuck. And none of these kids go to Disneyland, either. These books are about making the Gusman’s life miserable.) And you can’t just gank a Mexican getaway from the Gusman without catching a little flack for it. Just wait, mommy. All of these new “techniques” you’re using to get me under control–you know, the ones you think are working?–are going to start backfiring on your ass to the tenth power.

So, that’s my life this week. No white beaches. No wave-running in warm, blue ocean water. No throwing sand in Leona’s eyes. No counting one tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor from a distance while watching mommy. I’m sad. Now I have to wait all the way until August for a vacation, and then we will go to Michigan. And I suppose I should just let all you Michigan folk know, we are coming for the Gusman’s birthday. And it’s going to be a bash. I’m thinking Mardi Gras meets Boogie Nights meets Toy Story 3. And I think I will be dressed as a dragon. I’ve been practicing my fire-breathing. Mommy tells me with her stupid raised eyebrows when I am huffing and puffing that I am silly because little boys can’t breathe fire, only dragons can. For being buzzed so much, she sure as fuck is a buzz kill. What happened to, You can do it! Just believe! If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again! I will learn how to breathe fire some day because I will never give up until I blow up our hutch of liquor. It’ll be like Hiroshima up in this bitch. Who will have the stupid raised eyebrows then? Anyway, back to the party, where I will be a fire-breathing dragon: I also want LOTS of presents that will aggravate my cheap-ass mommy because she will have no choice but to ship all my crap back to the west coast. And I want M&Ms and jelly beans and cotton candy and pony rides and belly dancers and boat rides and my favorite movies on all day on every single T.V. in the house. Also, I want KIDS!! Lots of KIDS!! I have been colossally screwed on all birthdays leading up to numero cuatro because mommy and daddy forget the occasion is all about me and they invite grown-ups only and there are no fun pin-the-boobies-on-the-Vietnamese-girl games and everyone drinks ’till they puke. It’s like Girls Gone Wild with a lame Elmo birthday cake and old ladies that I don’t care to see in bikinis. So. Michigan. August. Get your shit together people and let’s rock Gun Lake like it ain’t never been rocked before.

In other news, Rat Baby will be walking very soon. She is taking two or three steps at a time, and again, the enthusiasm behind the parental response is excessive and annoying. You would think one of two amazing things had happened: 1.) She passed a watermelon out of her tiny little asshole, or 2.) Flew a rocket to the sun and back. Mommy squeals like a stuck pig and the sheer joy in her face makes me want to fist pump through her skull. Hey, guess what? I am able to successfully sneak the pruning shears out of the junk drawer and hide them in my sandbox so nobody knows where they are. I can make myself hiccup. I can do headstands on the couch and watch T.V. that way upwards of ten minutes. I have scores of hiding spots for my boogers throughout the entire home that will never be discovered. I can almost breathe fire. But do you think anyone gives a shit? No. Whatever. At least when she can stand and walk on her own, I will be able to push her down and remind her who the fucking man is. It is important to always view the positive.

Alright. Gotta get my snooze in. Papa Tim and Gramma Jett are coming over for dinner and I am going to sneak into the trunk of the Jaguar and go home with them for a while. It’s not exactly Cabo, but at least there’s a tractor there. Maybe by the time I come back, Leona will know how to fart on cue and we can have a fucking mensa-baby party for her.

Leona’s party has come and gone. There was cake, beer, presents, ribs, devilled eggs, cash, and forty-seven gallons of sangria that mommy was clearly left in charge of. Some people’s eyes are bigger than their stomachs–mommy’s eyes are bigger than her liver. So, my predictions about her blood-alcohol matching up to the decimal equivalent of a half dolla’ bill y’all were about accurate. This meant that I got away with not really eating anything of nutritional value all day, plus I skipped my nap, got to beat on other children without any severe consequences, enjoyed popcorn and a movie while mommy and daddy had another three bottles of wine for a night cap, PLUS I got a slumber party with my toe-head cousin Sienna. It also meant that I took a hell of a digger off my jungle gym outside because the slide isn’t bolted to the structure and no adults were paying attention. I could have broken my fucking neck, but I’m sure it was more important that the oranges be sliced to garnish the sangria. Oh well. Sometimes you just weigh the pros and cons of dumb-shit negligent parenting. On this day, the pros were like a list of inappropriate things I want for my birthday this year, and the cons were like a list of my favorite baby sisters. You get the idea. No contest. So I will deal with the giant raspberry on my right hip as a result and just give them all a little extra hell this week.

Mom got her first book from Amazon today, entitled Setting Limits with Your Strong-Willed Child: Eliminating Conflict by Establishing CLEAR,Firm, and Respectful Boundaries. Sounds like some riveting shit, right? Ironically enough, she spent the whole day reading it instead of paying attention to me when I tried to feed Leona a ping pong ball, a jack, and some very dated cold cereal from underneath the couch. (By the way, it was a pure moment of humor when mommy discovered the ping pong ball in Leona’s mouth. I’m not even sure how Rat Baby fit that thing it in there.) When daddy got home, she coached him (out of earshot) on all the things they have been doing wrong with me. Like they stand a chance against the Gusman. If they really want to know where they’re fucking up, they should just ask. I’ve been pushing for an Asian playdate for almost my entire life now, for starters. Since six months, I’ve been hot to trot for these ladies and the only one presently in my life–while hot–is my doctor, and all she does is strip me down to my skivvies, stick things in my ears, crack me in the knees with hammers, and then asks me if I want a lousy fucking sticker. Also, I would like some foster parents who A.) don’t have any other children (unless they meet the Asian criteria) and B.) don’t smell like vodka when they jump on a cardio machine. Let’s just say maybe I wouldn’t be such a spirited child if I didn’t have such a spirit-filled mother twenty four seven. I think this would pretty much fix all my problems, and mommy and daddy’s problems too. Nevertheless, this whole new approach to disciplining me could be fun. To celebrate this new, predictably short-phased train-wreck of a whip-cracking, I was a total fucking asshole tonight. They tried to put me to bed at 6:10 because I kept throwing toys and slamming my door. Well, that’s what they get when I don’t get a movie on demand. And then mommy made made me a deal (TOP FIVE RULE: don’t debate, argue, or negotiate with a spirited child) that if I calmed down and read a book in my room, I could come out, apologize, and stay up. I tried, man. I really did. Me and the sorry thing don’t have a working relationship, so I came out several times with the intention of apologizing, but one look at mommy’s ugly smugly mug and I had to turn around and go back to my room. I even went so far as to say the words I’m sorry twice but when mommy said, yeah? You’re sorry? I said fuck this and took it back. No I’m not! I’m not sorry! and I turned around and went back to my room. It was a serious battle of the wills. Eventually, I gave in because I wanted a snack, but that old hag said I could only have carrot sticks or a piece of bread and I had to eat it at the kitchen table. Fucking. Lame.

Daddy (telling me to bring the loaf of bread to the table where he and mommy were eating dinner): Gus, just bring it here.

Me, ignoring him, continuing to try and ravage the plastic wrapping to get into the bread.

Mommy: GUS! Listen to your dad. Bring the bread over here now or you don’t get any at all.

Me: Okay, okay! Okay, okay, okay! Relax!

Mommy: You don’t tell mommy or daddy to “relax.”

Daddy: Yeah, that’s like talking back.

Me: Well, you have to talk back. Like if someone says something to you, you have to talk back, right? Otherwise you don’t say anything!

And I put my palms up and shrugged my shoulders innocently, and sort of used this cute little high-pitched voice when I made my point, and neither mommy or daddy had anything to say in return. Which to me, says, I’m smarter than these fuckers already. The truth hurts. No wonder they drink.

Rumor has it I will be going to school soon. Well, whatever kind of hack program they throw you in for some peace and quiet around the homefront twice a week before kindergarten. Mommy has been prepping me with scare tactics. Apparently teachers can turn into witches or werewolves when their students are naughty. And there are time-outs in preschool that last for half a day. And sometimes if you’re naughty, you have to stand in the corner and wear a ridiculous hat shaped like an ice cream cone while other kids laugh and throw paper airplanes at your head. I say bring it, bitches. The biggest problem is that I am told I cannot go and make new friends until I consistently wipe my own ass after I go poop, and I have to remember to put my pants and underwear on every time–before I leave the bathroom. I don’t get the underwear thing. I asked mommy why people wear underwear, and she didn’t even have a good answer for me. It takes too long, and generally I have an episode of Dora or Mickey Mouse Club to get back to. I guess I will have to oblige though if I want to get the hell out of this shithole once in a while and start developing a posse that doesn’t include Rat Baby and Bettty Ford.

Well, I’m exhausted from the events that have transpired lately. Stay tuned, and I will keep you all posted on the parental unit’s attempt to mold my temperament. Jesus, that sounds like a lewd act, doesn’t it? This oughtta be good.

I don’t mean to be a prick, but it’s the truth. Once upon a time, mommy had no fear. She used a stern, controlled tone and put me in time-outs 345 times in a row without a single pee-break. She stayed calm mostly, and walked with her head held high. She could raise her eyebrows at me, and with that, simply, I would re-think feeding Brisket chocolate kisses or throwing rocks at the sliding glass door from the outdoor patio. Now, the power struggle is shifting. She is the new strugglee, and let me just say, getting thirteen daily ass-whoopin’s from a toddler is not doing much for the bags under her eyes or the worry lines on her forehead. You see, I have decided to take advantage of a needier Leona. With Rat Baby’s whining and fussing while standing between mommy’s legs when she is at the counter sneaking Kahlua in her coffee, it is much more difficult for mommy to monitor my time-outs. And so, I no longer choose to sit in time-outs. I just get up, look at mommy’s haggard, sleep-deprived face and desperate eyes, and saunter out of the kitchen to play with my dinosaurs. And after peeling Leona off her kneecaps, she will come and get me–calmly, at first–and place me back at the spot in front of the garage door where I am expected to sit compliantly on a nasty old rug full of dog hair, but seven seconds later I will leave again. Sometimes I run. And I make her chase me. I love this game! She does not. She threatens vile things and promises that I will not live to see my 4th birthday if I don’t stop running, but I just giggle and run some more. When she catches me, I am dragged through the living room and back into the kitchen where Leona is waiting to nibble on mommy’s ankles some more, and we play the whole game again. The other day she told me she had to “sweat out some angst”–this sounds painful, and I don’t wish to try it–so she got on the elliptical machine and called Papa Cool to bitch about me. Right in front of me. Word to my mother: Don’t fuel the fire by outlining in detail all of the things I do that make you drink, especially when I’m sitting right in front of you trying to shove woodchips in the dog’s eyes. That’s like winning an all-expense paid tour of every red-light district in the whole continent of Asia. A fucking jackpot. You get the picture. Then she ordered two books on Amazon. Something about strong-willed children. I am unsure of what these types of children are, but my best guess is they have strong quadricep muscles and are willing to say words like shit, fuck, and damn. And I don’t know why she wants to read books about them, but maybe it will be a story about how they all went to Disneyland, and she will be inspired to take me again soon. However, I suppose I will have to stop putting Honey Nut Cheerios in Leona’s pajamas so mom doesn’t scream when twenty of them fall out onto the floor during a diaper change. But that’s no fun.

The good news is, I finally got my hair cut yesterday. Maybe now mommy will stop telling me that I look like a bobble-head and that she’s embarrassed to take me out in public. Even Leona got some knots cut out of her hair. This is all part of the Cabo grooming routine. We have been shopping for bathing suits. We went to the shoe store and got some new sandals because officially, I am down to one pair of sneakers that fit me, so mom’s cheap ass was forced to take cash out of her vodka expense account so her children could wear something on their feet besides dirt-stained socks. The shoe store was fun. Leona really let her hair down and went on a rampage. Every time mom would turn her head, The Rat would pull two boxes of shoes from the shelf and they would spill into the aisle. While mommy picked them up, Leona would pull one shoe from 5 different boxes, and then a very frazzled mommy had to figure out which shoe went where. Rat Baby impressed me, I have to admit. She was fucking quick on the draw. When it was my turn to try on shoes, I decided I wanted to do pretend snow-angels on the mat in front of the main entrance. Secretly, I was hoping a hot Japanese girl would walk in wearing a skirt, commando style. Don’t tell mom. She about dislocated my shoulder removing me from my post during Operation Box Choy and she didn’t really even know my end game. When we got in the car, mommy said we weren’t getting any new shoes until we could drive ourselves to the shoe store and pay for them on our own. I don’t think she had as much fun as me and Leona.

Even though mommy is hung over today, she took me and Leona outside for a picnic in the back yard and played bubbles with us. Then she spent an immense amount of time picking up dog poop while I tried to talk Leona into eating a snail. This did not fare well with mommy, as snails freak her out. After the snail was removed from the premises, I decided to beat The Rat on the head with small sticks. She’s pretty tough. I can usually beat on her for a good two or three minutes before she starts to cry, but then mommy marched over to me and broke my sticks into a hundred pieces. A few minutes later, she told me to go play in the road because I threw a large stone at the dog. Finally, the towel was thrown in and I got a baba and an episode of Dora. I love a nice, spring day in the back yard.

I will let you all know how the birthday party goes on Sunday. I predict that mommy will get wasted and Leona will get enough presents to make me mad enough to take a piss on her favorite purple blankie. Just another birthday marked by a sloppy celebration in the Mermod home. And don’t forget, mine is in August. None of you fuckers can tell me you didn’t have enough notice. I expect a grandiose spread of new shit from all of you.

Today marks the two-week countdown until we go to Cabo. Mommy is stressed, and now that she isn’t smoking cigarettes or drinking during the week for lent, the whole family is forced to feel her pain. She is moody, distracted, and emotional. She is freaked out that me and Leona will be kidnapped in Mexico and end up as drug mules or child prostitutes. Officially, my image of licking the salt off mommy or daddy’s margaritas while getting a massage on the beach is warped, replaced with visions of mean, sweaty, sombrero-donning Mexicans who drive white vans full of puppies and jelly beans. Some vacation. Let’s just go back to the fucking flea market two blocks down the street and buy me another scooter. Sounds like more fun than popping laxatives and shitting heroin until my sixteenth birthday. Anyway, as a result of being distracted, mommy blew up three of Leona’s bottles in the microwave this week. By the third one, she was outrightly dropping f-bombs and muttering about having to clean the microwave for the third time and I thought maybe if she wasn’t nuking bottles like she’s supposed to, they wouldn’t be exploding in the fucking microwave, but who am I to call her out on her lazier parenting practices?

In other news, my baby sister will be one year old in a couple of weeks. We are having her birthday party on Sunday. I hate this shit. Birthday parties for other people suck ass, especially when “other people” are the annoying second addition to your family. I don’t get why the Gusman can’t have a birthday party once a month. Cake and presents are like my religion, and now I am going to have to watch my baby sister blow out candles and get a face-wash with some delicious chocolate frosting and open pretty packages and gift cards to Target while I am told to sit back and keep my hands to myself, and that’s not for you! and no, you can’t have any cake until later! Absolutely none of this sits well with me. I don’t know. Maybe I should just hitch a ride to Mexico early. Who’s headed south of the border? I have a passport and a high tolerance for beans and all things spicy. Also, I’m pretty sure mommy drank a lot of tequila once upon a time when those boobies belonged to the Gusman, and so my margarita tolerance is likely to be up there as well. I don’t know. The bottom line is, I hate sharing. The limelight, presents, cake, you name it. And so I’m dreading the big numero uno for Leona like a root canal. Mommy says to me don’t worry, it will be your special day soon enough, and I’m like, August 15th is NOT soon enough, buy me a fucking pony to tide me over, bitch. Well, I don’t actually say this, because the asshole parental unit is reaaaally cracking down on the back talk, but I am thinking it. Just like she thinks she would like to take me into the attic and tie me up for a couple of hours sometimes.

On a lighter note, yesterday was a pretty fun day. When mommy got up with her usual Sunday morning hangover, daddy took me on my new scooter for a tooter around the ‘hood. He rode his skateboard and we went down all the driveway hills we could find. I bit it like 34 times but I didn’t cry once. Daddy also took a nice digger and he didn’t cry either! I was so proud of him. Then we went to Philip’s house and I played with Gobbler the pug, and then we all went to Aqui so mommy and daddy could have margaritas. After my nap we all went for another walk in the ‘hood: me, mommy, Brisket, Leona and daddy. It was fun. The highlight, however, was after bath time. Me and mommy and Leona were playing on my bedroom floor. Leona took this little wooden lamb she got as a present when she was born and clocked me in the face with it. That. Shit. Hurt. I gave her an immediate verbal lashing: Leona! You don’t HIT! That’s not very NICE! You don’t DO THAT! And the little bitch sat there with a goofy-assed grin on her face like she thought the whole thing was hysterical. And then I hear mommy giggling from behind me. Assholes! Mommy said she was sorry, but she couldn’t help it. I am sure she was both punch-drunk and chardonnay-drunk, but it was no excuse for her to laugh at my pain and encourage Rat Baby to hit me with small, wooden objects. However, Gusman always gets the last laugh. Less than a minute later, Leona crawled over to mommy with that wooden lamb and dotted her right in the lip. And she dotted her hard. Mommy started bleeding and within moments she had a nice, fat lip. Dammit, Leona, that HURT! she spat angrily, examining her mouth in the mirror. Well. What can I say? Karma is more of a bitch than mommy, if any of you can believe it.

Okay, time for some peanut butter toast and orange slices. Then I am going to go help Leona get on the couch so maybe she can fall off of it and crack her head on the fireplace hearth. That’ll teach her to have a fucking birthday party on Sunday.

Once upon a time, daddy would make me these rad pork chops with a panko and lemon-zested crust. They were perfectly thin and perfectly pan-seared, and I declared them my favorite food for all eternity, besides those soy rice crackers from Trader Joe’s and pastel-colored plastic eggs filled with jelly beans or money. More importantly, this was a time in my life that I would actually be asked what I wanted for dinner. Without a moment’s hesitation, the answer would be pork chops. It felt good to be asked. I felt respected. Important. My opinion mattered. But with Rat Baby’s arrival and mommy’s manic attempts to make her gleefully content with every, single, fucking meal, the importance once placed on my grub has been swapped out with dismissive second thoughts and oh, wait, what’s Gus gonna have for dinner, babe? Since the day Leona started eating pureed solids, mommy has gone crazy with the food processor and blender all the spare moments of her day trying to come up with delicious combinations of fresh, organic fruits and vegetables for Rat Baby to feast on. And I get nuked Spaghettios and meatballs from a can, or, as I like to call them, red zeros and squirrel turds. Like most other things in my life since Leona, it’s bullshit. I would be very happy to see the F.D.A. approve any form of contraception that comes from a handle of cheap vodka so that maybe mommy would stop fornicating from this point on and start fucking feeding me something besides hotdogs and mealy, old apples three nights a week.

(Disclaimer: I do not fault daddy for this rapid decline in the quality of my food. His chopping wrist got sliced open six weeks ago and he doesn’t cook much because he is healing. He still goes to work every day and makes me popcorn at night and I don’t expect pork chops until he is all better. That said, fuck you, mom. You’re the pinnacle of health, with the exception of your liver.)

And what’s worse, Leona is such a little piggy when she eats. The other night, mommy made us rotini and meat sauce. Toward the end of most of her meals, Leona will do this thing where she dumps her sippe cup of water on her tray to create a nice mixture of food and liquid to smear everywhere with her hands. Then she will rub her eyes and put her hands in front of her ever-running snot-nose and sort of blow secretions everywhere. Actually, now that I think about it, this is all kind of awesome. Anyway, mommy freaks out and calls the whole thing disgusting, and declares bath time for all. So, as always with bath time, I am naked before I get off my dinner chair and wading in ankle-deep suds within two minutes. And while I have learned to sort of enjoy my rub-a-dubs with the Rat, I do not appreciate it when mommy takes her directly from her high chair without disinfecting her and puts her into my bubbly clean bath water. After rotini and meat sauce night, there were gross little chunks of tomato and onion and noodle floating around us in the water. The illusion was that someone had vomited in the tub, and it was very disturbing. Every time one of those nasty vomit-chunks would come swimming at my pecker I would have to pinch my knees together and swivel around. This created a lot of extra waves and slip-sliding for Leona, which angered mommy, and she told me to sit still and relax, and I was like, tell me how easy it would be for you to sit still and relax in a tub of puke, you nasty, old hag. I cut my bath short that night and spent an extra five minutes watching the water drain to make sure every bit of rotini and meat sauce left the building. Yecht.

In other news, I think I have herpes. Either that, or I have grown another half set of lips on my chin. There are these nasty, dry, red patches right under my bottom lip that sort of look like fresh hickies that came from someone with a very small head. Daddy says he used to get it all the time, and mommy says so did Uncle Boone when he was little, but I am still not okay with having such an obvious case of untreated herpes on my face, and I don’t care who else had it, just please give me some cream or something. Mommy insists that it’s not herpes, but drunks lie, so I am going to research some more after I finish this post. There are herpes commercials on T.V. all the time which make me paranoid and believe that I probably have it and I need to get some Valtrex right away. By the way, I think I got the herpes from the squirrel turds.

Time to go. Leona is trying to stand on my Mickey Mouse chair again and mommy is telling me to go play with her. I think I will take her into the bathroom and let her stick her hands in the bowl of the kiddy potty. It’s full.

I am having a difficult time understanding the structure of talking back. I don’t get why mommy and daddy get to yell at me and call me names and tell me no, but if I try to communicate in the same charming way, I get a time out or a serious tongue lashing or a hyper-extended-elbow-drag down the hallway to my room. I call bullshit. And mommy will demand that I look at her when she is talking to me, and I’m like look, you loony, fucking bitch, you’re not talking, your screaming at me like a crazed whore with brain-eating syphilis so I’d prefer not to make eye contact if you don’t mind. I’d rather look directly at the sun during an eclipse. Or into the eyes of a rabid Rottweiler. Or at an 83-year old granny crotch. The point is, she’s yelling, and that’s bad enough, and then she wants me to watch her perform her Mean Mommy routine from the front row, like I’m supposed to applaud and maybe throw her a fucking rose afterwards. So I don’t look at her, and I see her charge me with my keen peripheral vision, and I duck under my two arms and cower, and she flicks me in the ear. I. Hate. The Ear-Flick. If you Wiki-search how to chap a toddler’s ass in the worst way ever, there is a thorough description of the motherfucking Ear-Flick. I would rather mommy dot me in the eye. Or bring out the vintage wooden spoon and turn my ass purple. Or elbow me in the kidneys. You get the point. The Ear-Flick sucks. And so now, we have Mean Mommy yelling, and me defiantly avoiding eye contact, and then I get flicked in the ear, and my natural instinct is to scream back:

Me: Owwww! Mommy, you DON’T flick me in the ear ever again or I will punch you in the leg!

Mommy: You DON’T talk back to mommy (I turn my attention to Yo Gabba Gabba on the flatscreen), and you look at me when I am talking to you, do you understand?

Me: Well, you don’t be Mean Mommy or I will never play with you again!

Mommy: I don’t really care–I don’t even like playing with you–and I won’t be Mean Mommy if you behave and watch your mouth!

(Yes, she really said that. Who’s the toddler? I don’t’ even know sometimes.)

And I am screaming so hard at this point, I pee a little in my Mickey Mouse underwear. Mommy points at me with a hard finger tells me to watch my tone. There is battery acid in her voice. I tell her to watch her tone. At this point, she shakes her head, and scowls at me. She is fully exasperated. She mutters something about it being noon somewhere and disappears into the kitchen. And that’s it. I feel like I just paid a hooker for some nooky. We are even Steven. She yells, I yell, she flicks, I threaten to punch her leg, what’s the big deal? This is the game. Mommy just gets so mad when I defend myself. The Gusman will always defend himself. I am not some kind of a douche-bag wussy boy. But I do like tea parties.

That’s all I really have to say about that. I’m going to cruise around the living room on my bike until mommy finishes her Black Russian coffee and then maybe we can do some puzzles.

This past weekend, mommy and daddy took me to a candy store and bought me an awesome, gigantic, blue lollipop. This was on the same day I learned to ride my two-wheeler with training wheels and they let me crash into a curb without a helmet on. It’s likely that there is a connection here that I’m suppose to ignore. Anyway, because everyone spent too much time drinking margaritas at lunch before we actually got to the candy store, I fell asleep in the car about ten licks in. Mommy said she had to peel it off my wind pants when we got home because I was out like a corpse. The point is, she saved it for me, and I’ve been angling to finish that thing for the last four days. Every time I ask, it seems that I am one time out in too deep, or two sarcastic back-talks over the limit. So today, I tucked the real Gusman in my back pocket and turned on the Super-Son charm. I behaved all morning–I even whispered in mommy’s ear that I love her sooooo much while we were cuddling during Peppa Pig–and the only obstacle left was the lunch barter.

I’ve mentioned the Toddler Barter before. Generically speaking, this is what we do when we don’t want to comply 100% with an order from the parental unit. And let’s face it, there is a TON of shit that they ask me to do that I prefer not to. For example, I am asked to put The Rat Baby’s diaper in the Diaper Genie. Dammit! That thing stinks like twenty-six pounds of gorilla shit; I would almost rather eat the fucking diaper than flip the lid of that infested crap-can. Or, I am asked to clean up all 367 matchbox cars on the living room floor by myself and put them one-by-one back into the three-story case I dumped them out of. I have never and will never do this. I insist that it’s too hard and I can’t do it until either mom or dad step on one car too many, drop an f-bomb, and get down on all fours to do it themselves. I will help, of course, by telling them that they aren’t putting the trucks in the right slots, that they go at the end! You get my point. They say jump, I sit on the floor and cross my arms. Enter The Baba Barter. This started long ago. First, let me inform you that the “baba” is my infantile term for my sippee cup of milk. It’s been my baba since I was one, it will be my baba until I am making out with Korean babe in the parking lot of a Burger King. You must understand, I. Love. My. Milk. And when I ask 436 times a day for a baba, I am told no about 430 times. So I barter. Half! Just a half a baba! No? How about a quarter? Just a quarter baba and no more! Please? And since I’ve mastered the Baba Barter, the Bites Barter has come into play.

This is when I have my eye on the prize–dessert–and I can’t be bothered with eating the actual meal. So I will negotiate. Here is today’s lunch-time barter for that awesome blue lollipop for dessert:

Me: Can I have my sucker now?

Mommy: You barely touched your grilled cheese. No.

Me: How about two bites?

Mommy: Seven bites.

Me (anguished): Noooooooo! That’s too many!

Mommy (holding up seven fingers, and counting them off): No it’s not, see? One two three four five six seven, and that’s it, then your done.

So I start to take my little, bitty bites. And then the bitch starts changing the rules. That bite’s not big enough! That’s a girl bite, take a big boy bite. Nope, that one doesn’t count either. Before I know it, I’m fifteen bites in to a seven bite barter. And when I finish the official seven bites that my Nazi mother has approved, she throws some shit out about my untouched apple slices. Oh no, you had to just eat seven bites of your grilled cheeeeese. Now you have to eat four bites of your apples. And I’m like, bitch! I ate four whole fucking grilled cheese sandwiches! Apples were NOT in the agreement! She’s a cheater. She’s a cheater and a liar and she sucks because she gets away with it just because she’s taller and she calls herself the boss. So, seething on the inside, I oblige her on the apples, because she has just pulled the awesome blue lollipop from its hiding place in the cupboard to figure eight it in front of me like a goddam fairy wand. I can almost taste the blue raspberry deliciousness. I tell her I want it and she says she wants a million dollars, so I make a weird noise with my mouth like I have regurgitated the actual cash from my loins and I say okay! and put my right hand out palm up to hand her her million dollars. She cocks her head to one side, slightly shaking it, and smiles a tight, little, fake smile. It’s incredible that I am told all day to use my imagination when I want to play with friends, or have a beer, or eat some cake, but the one time it is implied that mommy use hers, she just looks at me like I have a third testicle hanging out of my nose.

I finish the apples and get the lollipop. It is pure ecstasy. It is worth the painstaking process of the Bite Barter. And even if mommy cheats, I still feel like I win in the end as she is scrubbing the blue off of every inch of my face and hands.

Yesterday I was happy to skip out on chocolate and candy hearts, because secretly, my family rocks, and Gusman gets the cold hard cash on Valentine’s Day. No better way to tell me you love me than with a ten dollar bill, bitches. Ten from Gramma Jett, and ten from Aunt Juanita, straight to the Asian Hooker Fund, an old Clorox wipes container that mom cut a crooked slit in and then duct-taped the lid shut. (The irony of this ghetto-ass piggy bank is that I probably have enough money in there to buy 100 real piggy banks.) And if the parental unit half-jokes one more time that they are cleaning out the Hooker Fund for our trip to Cabo next month, I’m going to take a dump on the front porch steps–in front of the hip, young neighbors across the street. You can’t just take a man’s hard-earned cash to pay for your afternoon tab at the swim-up bar. Mom. This is gross misconduct.

To celebrate V-Day, mommy said we were going on an adventure, which equated to a lame-assed trip to Target. I had to walk the whole time while Rat Baby sat in the plushy cart seat-cover eating turkey chunks and Pirate’s Booty. I pretended to enjoy throwing cans of Spaghettios in the cart to appease the old bag because I was trying to work a piece of gum out of her, but secretly, no man likes to grocery shop. Especially with his mother and kid sister. Plus, mommy has gotten really good at pulling out the items I sneak in the cart, like donuts, dog treats, or random bottles of salad dressing. In the end, I didn’t get any gum, but I did get fifteen minutes in the play area. And when mommy said it was time to go because I kept cutting in front of the babies on the slide, I gave her a big, Valentine’s day treat: a full-blown Gusman tantrum, with a complete list of -ings to boot (kicking, screaming, biting, pinching, hitting, mean mommy!-ing, etc.). She had to pull me by one leg out of the hollowed-out log while I tried to kick her in the face. Before she nerd-tossed me into the back of the Target cart, she calmly informed me that if her back went out because of that little episode she was going to sell me on eBay to the lowest bidder. I think she was pissed. She is always the angriest when she is calm. And she holds her chin up just ever-so-slightly and walks around with her eyebrows a little bit raised. Don’t fuck with mommy when she looks like this.

Needless to say, I had to spend the whole ride home with my nose up her ass. I told her how fun the mall was in a happy, sing-songy voice and then I sang Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star three times to a fussy Leona. Then I asked mommy to be my Valentine and told her how tired I was and could I take a nap when we get home? This all worked very well. So easy, the old bag. Marinades her grudges in alcohol so they just get all hazy and eventually they go away. It’s no fun, really. I could use more of a challenge. I did end up fighting her on the nap, though, even though I said I was tired. After I did not comply with the pre-nap go-potty request, she forcibly pulled my pants down, pushed me into the bathroom, pointed at the toilet and venom-hissed, PEE. NOW. I did not appreciate her tone, so I smugly decided not to lift the seat up. As I started to flow, she lurched at me from the doorway, crazy-eyed, and flipped up the seat with lightning speed. She damn near severed my penis. Put the seat up when you pee, dammit! she cried. Hey! You almost got my penis, mommy! I rebuffed. She did not respond, as she was busy pulling Clorox wipes from underneath the sink. I mused outloud that the dribbles of urine that had gotten on the seat were now dripping slowly down the underside of the seat, kind of in a circle. Fascinating was her flat and cynical response. You guys wonder where I get it from. Then she told me my nap better last a very, long time.

When she tucked me in, we had the formal make-up conversation.

Mommy: You know, I really don’t like it when I have to be Mean Mommy.

Me: I don’t like it either. You almost got my penis. That would hurt very bad.

Mommy: Well, you know not to pee on the seat. It’s gross.

Me: Well, you know you shouldn’t be Mean Mommy all the time.

Mommy: I’m not Mean Mommy all the time. Only when you’re naughty.

Me: Just don’t get my penis.

Mommy: I will never get your penis, I promise.

It was as much of a make-up as we were gonna get. My mommy, my Valentine, Protector of My Penis, was drinking wine before I woke up, and all priors from the day were floating down a river of chardonnay.

My bath time has been hi-jacked by The Rat. Mommy’s cheap ass will
no longer pay for twice the water, so I have to get naked with my baby sister.
We must frolic in the water together. Some of you might find this a reasonable
enough transition, but I am here to inform you of the latter.

Typically, when I am bathing by myself, mommy will step out of the
room for increments of one to two minutes to put some laundry away, fold some
towels, pick up toys, refresh a cocktail, etc. While I sit in the tub alone,
waiting to slip and fall and crack my head and maybe drown, I am permitted to
do things that I would not do were she in the room. (No, not those
kinds of things, pervs.) For instance, a couple of weeks ago, mommy could not
figure out why the lever you pull to switch the bath water to the shower head
kept jamming up and not working. She later made the discovery that I had jammed
three miniature dinosaurs up into the bath faucet, making it impossible to pull
the lever up. This triggered a series of questions from her, most of which I
find rhetorical and unworthy of a response. “What is the matter with
you?” “Why do you think its okay to do shit like this?” “Why are you such a little punk?” So I just sat there, naked, wide-eyed and innocent-looking, like I had no idea what the fuss was about. Fifteen minutes later, she had the pliers, two different kinds of tweezers and
a coat hanger that she was using to MacGyver those dinos out of the faucet. She
was only able to retrieve one. And when she gave up on the other two because
she cut herself and started bleeding, I howled for her to please, please,
please rescue my other dinosaurs! They are very scared in there all by
themselves! Mommy please, rescue them! Needless to say, my response was an
eyebrow raise, a seriously, dude? and a cold-hearted bitch cackle as she band-aided her finger.

I also enjoy dumping large cups of water onto the floor when she
is absent. And then I will call her back in just so I can sit upright and
proudly point at the puddle on the floor. This age-old game has clearly become
tiresome for mommy, and it really pisses her off. Again, the questions. “What is the matter with you?” “Why do you think it’s okay to do shit like this?” “Why are you such a little punk?” If I wanted to get technical with my response, I could accuse her of child
neglect, because I know she’s not supposed to leave me in the tub alone to
appease her drinking habit, but I figure this would get me in more trouble, so
I just reference a book that we have in the reading cycle right now. This
is the House Where Jack Lives is an entire cause-and-effect story based on
a boy who fucks up an entire apartment building because he takes a huge, messy
bath on the top floor of the building. This book is so purely awesome and
inspiring that I have the whole thing memorized. A boy gets hit in the head
with a pail. A fat lady drops a mop on a window washer. A black cat attacks a
maid after being stepped on. It rains in some bourgeois’ living room. I mean, it’s a debacle. And on the last page, we meet Jack, the brains behind it all. There he sits in
in his tub, three inches of water on the floor, with the shower and
the bath running, playing with his sailboat, grinning from ear-to-ear and just
having a fucking jolly good time. Anyway, I would friend this Jack
character on Facebook if I could.

So, you all get the point. Bath time folly is what I spend my
energy getting dirty on all day long. And now I have to share it with The Rat’s
rashy ‘gina and 100% parental supervision. Another phase of fun…phased out.
The only potential positive here is that I can use this time to guide Leona.
Teach her a few tricks, like spitting water in one another’s faces. Splashing
as hard as possible with both hands while the sliding glass door is open.
Whatever we can do to get a harsh, whispered shit! out of mommy and
maybe some empty threats about smacks on our bare asses.

In other news, I have finally learned how to ride my two-wheeler with training wheels. I think I just got so sick of the parental unit calling me lazy and telling me I wasn’t trying and blah-fucking-blah practice! practice! practice! that I decided to just do it so they could shove it up their asses. Then they were very proud. Mommy was about to cry out of pride and joy at the park yesterday when I was tooting around at about 5 m.p.h. until I saw some
chick hanging on the monkey bars with her belly exposed, and I stopped watching
where I was going, hit the curb, and went over. Do you think they had a helmet
on me? Of course not. Mommy said my thick, in-dire-need-of-a-trim head of hair would protect me. Whatever. Nothing like the gift of brain injury for your darling, three-year-old son. We’re so proud that he can ride his bike, but now he’s a fucking vegetable. Boo-hoo-hoo…

Anyway, I hear that weird theme song to the potato cartoon that I’ve started watching. Musical potatoes…I don’t know, man. There’s something about spuds harmonizing together that just draws me in…I can’t put my finger-ling on it. (Hey, I was born this funny, seriously.) Catch you on the flip.

You know it’s gonna be a long day in this house when mommy forgoes coffee for Diet Coke at 7:15 a.m. If I was tall enough to look into the kitchen sink, I’m sure there would be a pile of dirty wine glasses from yesterday (yes, DAY) and last night. So much for The Sober Weekdays Experiment. Whatever, let’s cut her some slack, she did okay. I mean, three days is a long time to go without drinking as far as I know. Two days is equally a long time. Her excuse for breaking down was, simply, weakness, until daddy called her at the exact moment the wine was being purchased to announce a new account at work, and then the excuse became CELEBRATION! Impeccable timing. But, the day was fun. Mommy’s friend Hot Hallie went with us to the children’s museum and it was a jolly good time. Me and Hallie bonded. She is a tall, leggy brunette and she wears a lot of hats like mommy. Let’s be honest, she’s no Michelle Kwan (you all know I came out of the womb with a penchant for the “-ese” ladies), but it still works for me. So, me and Hot Hallie played play dough together, and while it wasn’t quite the sexy clay-making scene in Ghost, it was pretty hot. Except I kept calling her Tiffany/Layla all day; I hate it when that happens. I spend the whole day pimping proper, and simple things like a name escape me. Anyway, the day turned into night, we all went to dinner, margaritas and more wine ensued, and at some point, they all forgot that I was even present and I fell asleep on the couch watching Wizard of Oz. At least I woke up in a diaper and pajamas.

Thus, the early a.m. Diet Coke. Mommy is actually quite clever about using soda to get me to eat scrambled eggs. For every three bites, I get a sip of soda, and since it’s a rarity that there’s not vodka mixed with it, I will eat the shit out of those eggs for some cola-flavored aspartame and caffeine. I’m sure the Pediatric Association supports this tactic. Also, I was allowed straight fruit punch with breakfast instead of the shitty watered down stuff mom usually gives me, and I didn’t stop drinking ’till it was gone. Now I have an awesome Joker face, so when I fly around the house on my Twist Roller scooter, I look pretty bad-ass. All because mommy is hung over. Not a bad deal.

This new in household news: I have decided to entertain the idea of an alliance with Rat Baby. I’m seeing new signs daily that she really isn’t that bad of a shit. She doesn’t listen to mommy when mommy says no, and this quality is vital if you want to be on Team Gusman. Also, when she throws her food on the floor, and mommy says no no, Leona! she gets this fantastic glint in her eye that to me, reads, what’re you gonna do about it, bitch? Challenging the no with a smart-ass look is way cooler than just challenging. And then Rat Baby will take her zucchini and slowly move to dangle it over the side of her high chair, but she’ll make sure mommy is watching before she flashes a winning smile and releases it to the floor to join the others. And I will praise her with laughter, and mommy will say it’s not funny, Gus! and Leona will start clapping her hands and giggling, and on the inside, I’m thinking, actually, mom, it’s hilarious, and this is the start of something beautiful between me and Rat Baby.

Speaking of Leona clapping reminds me that while I am entertaining the idea of an alliance with her, she still fucking pisses me off sometimes. She is a perfect clapper. Both of her hands meet together in a synchronized fashion in front of her chest, and she elicits a perfect clapping sound. She didn’t even have to practice–just started doing it with perfect ease one day. She’s an annoying, Rat Baby cheerleader. I’d like to shove a pompom up her ass. And now, mommy gloats about how well she claps while reminding anyone and everyone that when I started clapping, I just couldn’t get it right, and I would slap one palm on top of the other hand, like a half-clap. She laughs and says I looked like I rode the short bus. I don’t exactly know what that is, but I feel like I should respond with a fuck you, just because I don’t like the look on her face when she says it or her tone of voice. I just don’t get why Rat Baby is hailed for the dumbest crap. Leona opens and closes her mouth three times in a row–what a good baby girl! You are so cute! Leona takes miniature animal figurines out of a box and puts them on the floor one by one–yayyyy, Leona! Good girl! Leona eats a wood chip that I tracked in from the back yard–Mensa baby! It’s out of control. I don’t get it and I think it’s stupid. I have to step up my game for any attention in this shit-hole, and I can already do things like beat-box, belch on cue, and make really good dinosaur noises. My hat is about out of rabbits, dude.

Anyway, time to hit the park. Don’t any of you pricks mention the alliance to Leona. She needs to worship me like an idol always. I am her leader, her commander-in-chief, for all the days of her life. Forever. Period. She will never know if she is on my team or not because I don’t plan on telling her. So shut your mouths.